


crystal fusion

by snyders



Category: Dr. STONE (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bar counter, Cigarettes, Fakedeep, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Sexual Tension, fighting hall, now has an art!! check end notes, there's a fight scene because canon feels like they wont give us one, visitor stanley snyder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snyders/pseuds/snyders
Summary: "How does one challenge you to stir a thrill from you, even?""How would you?"With their lips aligned, Stanley casually lets a cube of ice slide to Tsukasa’s gaping mouth, and the chill flares something searing beneath him like lava, waits for it to thaw Stan’s ice—yet when his vision grazes Stanley’s eyes, light blue  ones coiling to a caustic shade,cooling him obsidian.Tsukasa Shishio, 26, Mixed Martial Arts superstar, holds a record of 29 - 0. Undefeated all throughout his career,The King of a Hundred Beastsreceives a clean punch on the face upon spotting a lustrous white hair among the crowd; because years apart is perennial.
Relationships: Stanley Snyder/Shishiou Tsukasa
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	crystal fusion

**Author's Note:**

> let me just say that despite my ever growing hate for (online class) school, something good came out of it i guess? somehow? esp from science class and how this fic is inspired by obsidian rock which is produced when lava from a volcano cools rapidly with minimal crystal growth. and i just really think its pretty when i came across the rocks type and kind lesson page bc its black. and its pretty and it suits my metaphorical ass ft. tsukastan. 
> 
> here's my tsukastan [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3hnUZ6crT6vS00CzDADIsT?si=stdD-GfYTIqnaLtttQwb0A) that i made. enjoy.

_Dim. Breathing._ Footstep against sand. Footstep against densed floor. It plays alternatively in his clouded mind as though glitching. 

He’s always there. Always in a dream state even despite knowing he should’ve woken up by now. Woken up from the smell of sea salt that comes prickling his nose when the deep blue waves crash harshly against the shore. The wind howls against his ears in a declaration that it is alive and free.

Young Tsukasa Shishio is always there. Standing barefooted on the shore. The ragged clothing that has both the characteristics of worn out and threadbare, hugs his frail frame announcing his status so well. 

But _god_ does young Tsukasa ever care about the menacing whispers coming from faceless people that pass by his figure everytime. People which he knew, were born and had a stage already set for them to braved life easily before they disintegrate to ash, to be one with the earth’s soil when time calls for it. He finds their kind the worst. Those whose cries can leave your ears dripping with viscous red not knowing that rock bottom for them is a routine for someone else.

He lets himself take in the sight of the endless ceiling painted with blues and puffs of white which its depth cannot be measured. Then he felt the crash of water splashing his body wet.

He looks down at his feet when the waves wash away as part of the chain to start another set of harsh blows of ocean water against the earth’s land masses, then slowly swimming back to its source as if it knows it can never stay longer there than short beats of second

 _Nature is funny,_ he thinks.

It is funny— _silly_ with no particular basis. It just is. Though there is room for changes in that thought, he does not delve deeper into it when he found himself crouching on wet grainy sand. A product of nature in hand. He scrutinizes it with his eyes, wondering what purpose can it be made for when he unconsciously picked it up from below. Resting on his palm is an empty shell. He finds it pretty. And with that word comes the thought of someone he cared for who deserves pretty things but not even a single pretty thing or just a fragment of it was received by that person, pretty things that Tsukasa is unable to give. 

So he smiles and off he goes gathering more of the pretty thing’s kind within his reach. When he finishes and there is no longer space in his arms to accommodate more shells, he sighs in content and starts to stalk off for home where the receiver of the gift to be made out of his harvest peacefully sleeps. And from then on is Tsukasa willing to wait on giving the gift for when she finally rises from her deep slumber.

There was hope flickering there, on the chamber of his heart. Loathe and madness seems too big for it to fit. And heavy, so he settles on keeping hope—or call it a _pipedream_ even, no matter how tiny, it’s there. And it’s warm. 

_Warmth—_

Like the last lantern pried away from a child’s hold before it can even be sent afloat to the heavens, it was forcibly crushed. The illumination that once was there completely and painfully died out. 

And then Tsukasa felt the rawness. Of madness flowing hot through his veins. It trickles from the source when the sight of shell fragments were sent flying and down it goes back to the sand from where Tsukasa had picked them from. 

Without waiting for a beat, the crunching of skull being crushed in his palm filled his senses in the same way the source of the sound did to the shells. 

Similar sound resonated on his ears when the memory cuts to black shrinking into a tiny speck till’ there’s nothing left.

The cheering and worshipping and hooting erupts from the crowd as he takes down another challenger in one small effort like swatting a fly that has fainted out of fear without even coming close as to touching a single strand of hair out of Tsukasa’s. He looks down at his knocked out opponents lying on the cold floor of the octagon cage. 

They’re bleeding from the face. When they’re completely immobilized on the ground and have no signs of moving, the announcer yells on to the mic the winner of the match that earned another booming noise from the crowd encircling the cage. 

Tsukasa takes this as a sign that his business here is done. He’s won. And like any other night, the people who’d come, whose faces he did not commit to memory rooted for him. Just like any other night, he’s the one who gets to bask under the spotlight. When some made it known that they covet that from Tsukasa, he does not understand when he himself isn’t able to find pleasure in it. But then again, people have varying kinds of sources to enjoy pleasure in. Tsukasa has not found one. Uninterested as he is.

He went for the battle cage’s door, descending down the tiny set of stairs only to be met by a horde of people who admired him longer than he might’ve thought. They can only stare though, aware of the air radiating off Tsukasa’s silent, yet intimidating demeanor. Or that’s just how they see Tsukasa, a majesty that sits on a throne of glory—and if that is factual, Tsukasa isn’t one who knows better of himself. 

If there could be someone who’d ground the image, reduce it to ash and Tsukasa be born anew to a world which no man needs to go down; _deep, damp, scalding_ core of Earth, Tsukasa would be glad to accept it in any of its form. Even if that form comes in a human body, vanishing in a flash, leaving behind a lungful of white-streaked smoke hanging on the air between the damp walls of the entryway of the fighting hall. 

How’d he come to that conclusion? Tsukasa has no idea himself. But for a man who can’t—doesn’t want to be as expressive as anybody else in a manner both verbal and action with the means behind it hideous, he needs to resort to having thoughts in his mind entrapped and sealed tight.

It’s just that he’s wary. _His instincts are_. 

It is true that his audience faces are a blur in his mind. Maybe because he doesn’t find the need to have a good look on them, not compelled enough to print their faces vividly in his head. But he felt that something lurks and _watches_ , somebody unfamiliar, whose purpose unknown.

He moves past the narrow corridor that leads to a shower room as the side of his arms graze the concrete surface that stretches beyond his sight. It feels like moving in a tunnel passage, with a size that almost feels like it can hardly accommodate all of him. The path barely has a hint of illumination when he’d reach the room, shades of grey, shower cubicles lined up in both sides of the room leaving a gap in the middle, an aisle where in the end of it is a reflection of his mere self. A mirror occupied what was left of the wall amongst the shower stalls. 

Stepping into one of the stalls, Tsukasa immediately feels a comfortable bliss from the coldness of water that hits the crown of his head first, then downwards it drips.

It’s a routine, never-ending and quite bearable. Despite not as much as breaking a bead of sweat from the usual little exertion of his nightly activities, taking a shower always follows right after.

Then when he’s done, he's changed into pants and loose thin clothing of mud brown color, the sleeves stretching up to his wrists, not sticking to his skin.

As if moving inside a maze once more, one that he’d recognized where it curves, the dead ends and where the exit line resides, he found himself where he’d always been on a night of his aftermatch.

What greets his sight is a dance floor; or what it is intended for. It is empty, save for the people that are spread over on the tables that are either here for idle talks or the cheap drinks lined up in the bar counter. 

He crosses the dance floor going for the bar counter on the far end of the room, lights dances; of neon green, red and blue moving along with the whisper of the music that all seems too tacky for this place.

It is not crowded, otherwise Tsukasa wouldn't be here, the closest Tsukasa would ever be getting a place that is both a distraction and a little comfort. 

The bar is part of the underground establishment. He witnessed it get dolled up and how the old man tenant had burst into a carefree expression of happiness upon the new addition to his asset before drifting away to gamble. Tsukasa can’t blame his excitement though and how he’d called Tsukasa a blessing of luck, because the underground gambling turf has flourished with the mere spread about Tsukasa’s strength being the main talk of town. That had gathered a swarm of overly eager bastards that have all the determination to prove to the gods that they are the strongest. 

And the fighting hall became officially open for business. Where gamblers gather, challengers wallowing to disappointment. Tsukasa felt like an animal being watched past the fighting cage’s screen, but he was left with no choices but to be man’s entertainment. Tsukasa is never wrong about how he perceives the world; is what he thinks. 

It’ll nearly be half a decade ever since Tsukasa has started doing this. Only thing he remembers is fighting a bunch of thugs in this very area. He was young, almost consumed by madness and found himself building something amidst the fury, but not enough for all that he had to return back to him.

He already made it halfway through the room, and he can see the young bartender in charge scrambling to make a drink especially for him although Tsukasa has never finished a single glass pushed to him; other nights, not even a sip from it content to just sit there and let the time pass. 

The bar is not much profiting, but the fighting hall makes up for it with Tsukasa playing the main part. Sometimes he thinks he might never get out of this thing he’d entered, but it’s the only way to survive, to fulfill his purpose. He has something to acquire out of this all, he needs the money he earns for— _a whiff of smoke came knocking on his senses_ coming from behind just when he was about to reach the stool of his usual spot; the end of the counter. An isolation.

Unamused, he turns. 

Tsukasa doesn't know if him possessing the characteristic of being silent had somehow stifled the reaction that would spill out if he is just any other person in front of— _his vision zooming in and out._

He's not one who size people up, to be wary, to take more than a second look at others. But this one. 

Clad in a second skin of plain pitch black cloth, Tsukasa ran his eyes over him—he didn't mean to, can't help it, only hoping for the dim lighting of the room to conceal that action from the man’s vision—gaze flicking back up, the same time a ray of dancing green light had licked past the other’s face. Tsukasa’s eyes caught in a static collision to blue gauging ones. _Dangerous_. A conclusion that claws its way on Tsukasa's head.

"Ah."

A deep voice, saccharine and gruff, a puff of translucent smoke forms in the air. All in one beat.

Tsukasa stared at him dazedly. 

"Back there," the words rolled out, casting chilliness to where Tsukasa stands. As what Tsukasa had thought, the icy features of the man extending to ashen hair signifies that he is foreign as how he speaks. He thought as the man continued, "couldn't see much of you."

Eyes unblinking, Tsukasa took a moment for the words to sink in, all while trying to recollect fragments of what he had learned in English lecture class in highschool back then. Perceived as a student rebel, Tsukasa is not attentive, but neither is he stupid. 

_Back there._

He didn’t know what the stranger had meant or if he should speak to him so he turned back to where he was originally headed to in an attempt to brush off the other even if he’s relentlessly _distracting._

Tsukasa pulls up a stool on a familiar spot. A glass of drink atop the wooden counter staring at him to get a sip just so he has something to do while the other man has decided to be a company to Tsukasa when he follows on. In a lax manner, the foreigner pulls the chair, the second closest to the end of the counter. Next to Tsukasa. 

“Your swing,” the man starts off, then takes a last deep drag of his dying cigarette. The ash at the end falling like snow on the wooden counter followed by the stick itself towards the floor where it met its fate by being crushed by a sole of a shoe. Smoke spreads on the area reaching Tsukasa’s space. It stinks. “is impeccable.”

Few minutes of encounter with this stranger had Tsukasa wondering if he has the habit of taking pauses in between words, or the taste of nicotine is just that good to him that he’d die if he doesn’t get a hold of it. 

Not knowing how to take the transparent compliment, Tsukasa lets his hand wrap around the cold glass, looking down at the image reflecting from the liquid. Of himself.

“But somehow, there’s _lacking_ ,” _That._ Almost had Tsukasa’s head whipping so hard towards the source of the voice’s direction. But Tsukasa was able to stop himself midway from doing so. Unable to hide being intrigued about the unexpected insight, but nonetheless, calm; he figures is how he currently looks.

“ _The strongest primate of town,_ the title just reached my ear, _”_ the man drawled while swiveling a finger on the rim of a shot glass Tsukasa did not notice him ordering. Tsukasa looks away, taking a sip from his own glass, not liking the taste and waits for what the other has to say. “However you,” Tsukasa did not realize he was bracing one arm on the counter table, planted firmly. He doesn’t know why. “Don’t feel like you belong here. Suppressing _too much_ power. ‘You aware you could be so much bigger even as you currently are right now?”

 _Ah._ Tsukasa is reminded of such visitors who appear to be some kind of professionals handing out cards as if it's the normal thing to do. A pocket-sized rectangular thing that has an agency label written on it in shining bold letters. Tsukasa gave them a questioning look every time, which in turn he’d receive a business smile and a reasoning slipping past their lips ‘ _You look pleasing to the eyes’._

Tsukasa knows what the person sitting beside him is getting at. The surface of it, that is. Yet Tsukasa offers no reaction to that if ever it’s aligned with provocation, letting an outsider talk him down, but that’s better than to disclose something to a person he just met. No matter how the urge seems to simmer, and it might happen anytime soon.

At the end, it’s a one sided conversation, with Tsukasa having utter nothing until he felt a shift beside him and heard a low voice saying under a breath, _got to go, have to buy my cigs._ But then two beats—no, _four_ until it came to a halt, not that Tsukasa would ever admit that he’d count it.

“Do you mind?,” Tsukasa, hearing that, half turns, sees the stranger's profile and knows what he’s asking for. For the first time that night, Tsukasa utilized his voice, surprised he even did no matter how low it came out. 

“I don’t.”

And so the stranger strides over, stops in front of Tsukasa and from there, he casts a shadow of intent that Tsukasa is unsure what to name. 

In arm’s length, he reached for the glass that had been wrapped by Tsukasa’s palm all night, but the drink was still pretty much untouched save for that one time he’d brought it to his lips, the liquid from the glass coming in contact with it lightly.

A moment when the man’s currently taking a swig, he noticed those eyes don’t leave his, whispering a silent challenge driving Tsukasa on edge. There it is again, when Tsukasa feels like he can do nothing but succumb to the clenching of—and _oh,_ was this man’s lashes always been this long. It suits him. 

Tsukasa might've imagined it too late. But the way the other had managed a pause to his motion, to flick a look at the glass earlier as if it’s to be sized up. Then deliberately— _deliberately_ and slowly, he fits his lips on the spot of the glass’ rim from where Tsukasa had done too.   
  
  


\\\  
  
  


“What can be that thing that is holding you back?”

A voice asked, oddly familiar. Had it not been keeping him company many nights, it wouldn’t be. And since _that_ night, too. Bewitching lashes and tinted lips swimming under and over his brain like some kind of a crime. 

The man— _Stanley Snyder_ —was his name, as Tsukasa had learned one time when a flock of people and what Tsukasa had suspected was in relation to him (their features are very telling) and how they called him _Commander!,_ and Snyder’s whole name following the word in a loud chorus that should be odd considering the kind of setting they are in.

His mind goes back to the question in an attempt to decipher where to put it between the line of being eloquent and fraudulent. 

“Mercy.” _A lie_.

“Unfashionable aren’t you. You have the strength. The power to beat all of your enemies into a pulp. If you would only allow yourself, glory is waiting for you to feast in,” Stanley says this as though knowing that Tsukasa knows this too. It’s just like any other night of making small talks to fill the space between them, the silence. Because as what Tsukasa sees, Stanley is not one to pry. He may be the one to initiate with the knowledge that Tsukasa would stay sitting there like some sort of stone; tough brick that could never absorb, but it’s testing Tsukasa to reach the end of his wits and pour just to see how’d Stanley react. 

_How Stanley would want._

Then from where Stanley sits beside him nursing a cheap whiskey that he’s ordered from the bartender, wondering why that thing is liked by a foreigner so much that doesn’t seem to match his class, looks up at him meeting his glance, one that they share too many times before falling into silence once more, utters, “A lion’s not meant to be caged, Tsukasa.”  
  
  


\\\  
  
  


He’s in the cage again, his nightly battle reaching closer to the climax as he throws a challenger’s body effortlessly across the expanse of the ring, using the tiny chunk of his strength that for others, is too much. He doesn’t need to check on the body to make sure he’s won. Even when he’s now facing away, hearing the metal cage shook from the impact of a human’s whole back coming in contact with it, followed by a loud thump on the ring’s floor and the viewer’s reaction that erupts from the crowd is an indicator.

Soon, he’d move to his routine : move out of the fighting cage, shower, head to the bar. The usual—or not really when a new found habit had wormed its way to plant the seed of it in him. Before he can completely make all his way down the tiny set of stairs that connects the platform and the ground outside of the cage, he’d do something he had started doing recently and will repeat like on this day; his eyes sifting through the crowd to meet a pair of indifferent eyes as if he had not have enough of it for it was all that’s visible on his vision the entire fight that night. _And previous nights._

Between the blurring of the sea-like crowd, meters of distance; chest bared, tall, lean, Tsukasa stands under the limelight. Decides to gaze at Stanley Snyder’s form of a shadowy figure, always one with the smoke. Thinks that in a long range, it’s safe for him to do so. It is not.

 _“Your eyes and the noise of the crowd it seems,”_ the voice begins to fade in, finding himself on their usual seat, “are in disproportion."

Tsukasa wonders why he’s seen his eyes, when it was supposed to be fighting bodies he should be watching. Or how’d he catch it among the speed of fists cutting through the air to make such remarks.

“Drink.” A glass, _Stanley’s_ , was pushed towards his direction, the butt of the glass scraping the wood counter while its contents sway just enough for it not to spill, “swallow the ice cubes,” the tone held a challenge.

Tsukasa’s confused, but hoping that this would be enough as a retaliation to all the statements thrown by Stanley, not wanting to drive him away, he brought the glass to his lips in one slow motion. 

The bitter tang of the pure cheap whiskey greets him strongly and he's in regret for forgetting to hold his breath. This is why he doesn't drink. Headache soon comes in a flurry after the amber yellow chilly liquid almost burnt his throat while making its passage through his throat. One glass, but for a big of a man Tsukasa is, is an enemy he doesn't dare bring upon himself. 

In the process of almost emptying out the glass, he sees at the corner of his eyes, Stanley shifting his position to look at him in a better view. His body's facing Tsukasa's direction now, making his side be in contact with the edge of the counter, putting his weight to it and lazily settling his cheek on his palm as though waiting. 

From where Tsukasa had tipped his head backwards, he couldn't help but notice the lump of flesh that had formed between Stan's palm and his face, making it known that even behind that pretty, perfect, attractive face, even with the absence of cigarette, he's still human. Not all sharp, cold edges but blood, bone and flesh. 

"How does one challenge you to stir a thrill from you, even?"

And when he thought he could put down the glass wordlessly, "I've yet to know." He answers honestly, shaking the shot glass with no plan to put it down soon. For now, he’s satisfied by the sound of the ice cubes colliding against each other and the walls of the glass, jangling. Noticing it, he's reminded by what Stanley had said when he'd offer the drink. Then, Tsukasa added, a smile involuntarily tugged on his face. It's fond. He finds he has no will in him to fight it, "how would you?"

The reply came as soon as the glass landed atop the counter, feels it being torn away from where he had not completely let go of it just yet. 

It happens in a flash of second: Stanley already surging on his space, mouth pursed with what could be inside is nothing else but the solid contents that’s left from the glass. Tsukasa’s jaw, seized by one large hand.

But those didn’t take him apart. At least wasn’t enough to. 

_What did_ , is a pair of eyes, crystal-like blue. And Tsukasa, underneath that gaze should’ve known that he’s always doomed to be its target; makes his skin crackle, drawing out pulsing heat in him.

The first light dip of lips was the catalyst to urge Tsukasa on digging his teeth to glossed out lips so hard the tint that Stanley wears would be replaced by blood. With the last thread of his sanity, he buries the desire, afraid that the cold of him would fade away.

Replaced by tongue, it nudges his mouth open, prying it apart. _Who’s Tsukasa to persist on fighting against this?_ He’s not even trying to in the first place.

With their lips aligned, Stanley casually lets a cube of ice slide to Tsukasa’s gaping mouth, and the chill flares something searing beneath him like lava, waits for it to thaw Stan’s ice—yet when his vision grazes Stanley’s eyes, light blue ones coiling to a caustic shade, cooling him obsidian.  
  
  


//  
  
  


The next day after the ice cube incident, Tsukasa heads to the underground bar right after a shower with a heart leaping with _uneasiness? agitation? anticipation?_ all at once, possibly; the fruit that is borne by the events of yesterday. Tsukasa doesn’t know what to name it. But when he’d witnessed the bar counter empty, with no figure waiting by unlike the usual, no hint of the stinking tobacco overhead when he’s about to take a step past the entrance of the bar, he feels his jaw pulled taut noticeably, and the rate of his speeding pulse decreases. 

And an illogical conclusion wriggled its way into his mind that he’d refuse to admit.  
  
  


//

  
  


And the next day came by a blur. It takes half an hour from him to be supposedly free to chat and just sit by the bar after his main business, but with a dent on the chain of his routine brought by the absence of a company he did not ask for yet he's willing to keep—if he's allowed to, he avoids the section of the bar mindlessly. He doesn't dare check, but how tempting for him. So he passes through the maze corridors, taking countless turns until he has stepped into his own den. 

At first he only sees the outline of the fighting hall's cage, then takes the initiative to switch the lights on with a flick of his wrist. The lights suddenly burst alive, illuminating the entirety of the room, smaller than what Tsukasa had thought it was, now that he got a look of it devoid of audience but him.

He notices the grey walls of the room, cemented but paintless, and from where Tsukasa is standing, on the center of the room is a platform basking under white lights, shining and glowing. And he wonders how he’d look standing over there—and before he knows it, he has already entered into the cage. 

Tsukasa, with his hand running on the cold metal fence of the cage, realized how little of it in him to find this of value, when it already is. Because in spite of continuing to live, he has to, _for someone_ , and this cage that’s a flask of cruelty, he finds it rather hard to believe it’s the same thing that held Tsukasa in order to survive.

As if not letting him drown in thought, he hears footsteps echo on the enclosed dense wall of the corridor, traveling through the doorless entrance of the fighting hall reaching Tsukasa’s ears.

He wishes it does and doesn’t belong to _that_ person at the same time. Hearing himself repeating the thought again, he asks how is it possible to wish for that in one thought process.

But he sees it through the screen of the cage; that all too familiar white smoke floating to enter the room even before he emerges from the darkness. Silver hair of medium length that’s neatly slicked back, with a large strand falling on his face that contributes in making him look good in the eyes. Standing before him with a dark backdrop, Stanley Snyder in that second skin of black clothing because he never wears anything else of different color, and a cigarette that nuzzles between his tinted lips— _lips,_ the sight brought back the night of the ice cube incident like cold water splashing over him. 

Tsukasa turns away, unsure what to do.

“ _Now now_ , you’ve kept me waiting. We’re running out of time,” Tsukasa hears. 

“Why? I never told you to.”

It was out of his mouth before he thought much of it with something simmering began to crawl up his throat. 

With his back still turned away, he hears Stanley’s quick footsteps going for the set of stairs, followed by the screech of the cage’s door swinging open. 

_Don’t come_ , Tsukasa prays.

“You were not there yesterday,” he states, in a matter of fact.

“That’s what you’re mad about?”

“I’m not,” Tsukasa half spins his body so he’s now facing Stanley. And _they’re_ —unbelievably close.

Then Stanley’s head made a motion of pure disbelief, “Then you should look at the face you’re making right now.”

And what Tsukasa hadn’t seen coming was a fist driving close to the direction of his face. In the last seconds the attack was a mere centimeter away from making a clean hit on his face, he managed to clamp it with his own. Not making more motion to dodge with his body still planted on the spot.

If it’s any other person who’d attempted to do that boldly as Stanley did, Tsukasa would have had the bones of their fist already crushed, and then comes their writhing cries. But this, perhaps, Tsukasa likes the feel of it. Knuckles pressing on his palm leaving an invisible lasting mark 

He made no move to let go of it, with fist on palm midair between them, Tsukasa looking at Stanley, surprised at the pleased expression that is knowing that Tsukasa would not counterattack any moment soon.

“The first time I saw you, I’ve always longed to fight you myself. Those nights, watching you wrestle, _and_ ,” he lowly chuckles,“and deliver fights that the audience buy, it’s… _lukewarm_. How’d the temperature change if I’m in the place of your opponent instead? Would you like to know?”

Taken aback by the confession, Tsukasa slowly lowers their hands, parting from the contact. The look in Stanley’s eyes holds an indescribable meaning.

Wanting to fight _, mnh._ Tsukasa can give him that. 

So without hesitation and a word said, Tsukasa brought his hands to the hem of his shirt and up, shedding the piece of cloth and tossing it to the corner space of the ring that he’d spotted.

When he looks back at Stanley, his eyes aren’t on his but elsewhere. Fixed on _elsewhere,_ also known as his body, muscles, chest; ripped. 

Stanley doesn’t bother to hide it—whatever it was, when he’s staring hard and long and he’s pursing his lips, then a bob of his throat that just signifies when a person swallows a saliva followed by him shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

He crosses his arms across his chest, his gaze back on Tsukasa’s once more, clears his throat. With the way his lips tug on the corner, Tsukasa doesn’t know what it meant or if he could take it as some sort of flattery, as well as the little motions that unfolded just before him.

Stanley takes a step closer, now toe to toe with him. And even if disarmed, Tsukasa finds him relentlessly dangerous.

“Go rough on me,” Stanley taunts in a whisper. Then looking up, using Tsukasa’s shoulder as a leverage to reach the shell of his ear, he playfully adds, “ _Shishio_ . _”_

That gnaws Tsukasa’s brain, chipping at his temperament. 

To be the first one to break, he puts an arm around Stanley’s neck putting him on a chokehold on his side just so that they need not to face each other. In this position, despite Stanley being taller than an average man, there’s still a mere difference of measurement between him and Tsukasa with Tsukasa being taller. Taller enough for him to place his chin atop that head. He caught sight of the small area around Stanley’s ear that is shaved short, he also notices the proximity that they’re in, the closest their bodies have ever gotten; _an embrace_.

But that did not last long (as much as to Tsukasa’s dismay) when Stanley avoided this by taking control of his forearm and pushing Tsukasa’s elbow upwards while rotating his body away from him with a maintained grip on his forearm. Tsukasa can feel an abrupt pressure above his elbow, his mind catching up to him on what Stanley opt to do.

Tsukasa avoided the armlock by overpowering with brute strength, hauling Stanley’s whole body away creating an arm’s length of distance between them. With the gap, he can take a much better view of Stanley, and reminded by how he’d easily escape Tsukasa’s hold earlier dawned on him that Stanley does live up to his title. _Commander Stanley._ His stance and technique speaks for itself.

He feels it then, the hunger that seeps out of Stanley, dripping from his eyes. Truly uncontrollable and dangerous.

_How long have you been waiting for this?_

Then a callback of earlier’s confession flashes, Stanley’s voice, _‘the first time I saw you’._

Tsukasa sees a series of punches coming from Stanley. Quickly slipping out of it, he parrys the attack with the front of his hands, feeling each hit against them increasing in power whilst Stanley’s speed stays the same. To reset the fight and attempt to find an opening to get it on his favor, Tsukasa delivers a harsh kick to Stanley’s stomach. Not giving enough time for Stanley to regain his balance, he throws his arm in a punch then a kick, followed by a random combination of attacks to throw Stanley off. 

But it’s Stanley he’s facing; persistent, experienced, skilled _Stanley Snyder_. By now, he probably holds the record for being the person who lasts the longest amongst the hundred challengers that are knocked unconscious after just a few seconds being pit against Tsukasa.

There’s a fury of bliss roaring inside Tsukasa, he feels it bite, the chill all too familiar as he charges forward, and Stanley does too. Them, heading towards each other, and Tsukasa might’ve guessed that he can only find— _feel_ this with Stanley alone. And knows it is the truth.

Stanley comes at him, about to clutch one of Tsukasa’s arms, but Tsukasa, riding his speed has ducked just in time under Stanley’s stretching arm while viably shoving his elbow upwards. Using the created gap, Tsukasa entered into a throwing position grabbing Stanley by the groin. He weighs, but nothing like Tsukasa’s strength can’t handle. 

Locking his center of gravity, Tsukasa stands up to lift Stanley into the air twisting him—but _alas_ , Stanley’s incredible balance enables him to wound both his legs swiftly around Tsukasa’s torso preventing Tsukasa to slam him into the ground. Instead, he finds the wall of metal chain-link fence of the ring as an alternative to the ground. 

Pushing Stanley’s latching body against the fence, rather too strongly, the impact resonates a loud timbre. Tsukasa’s arms impale itself on either side of the man, trapping him between them, fingers curling on the gaps of the metal fence for support.

They stayed like that, their gaze mirror each other, unmoving but with a look of contentment. Stanley looks flushed against him, an inch taller elevated by his position with his hands sprawled on the expanse of Tsukasa’s strong shoulder and chest, resting there. His hair no longer prim, tousled and he’s red by the ears, and Tsukasa wonders if that’s from earlier execution or something else. He figured he doesn’t look any better, because Stanley, the more he looks like a mess and battered up, the prettier he gets. A mere observation.

Tsukasa had the sudden urge to pry them away from his face, to tuck the locks of silver behind the shell of Stanley’s if by doing so would allow him to see his face seemingly bare every nook and cranny of it. 

Yet he pushes down the desire, unintentionally shoving Stanley against the fence harder in the process, which earns him a low hiss slipping out from the other man that both of them all too well had heard within the confines of the quiet hall. He’d die to admit that he would like to hear it again.

A tap on the shoulder. Stanley uncharacteristically dodges his gaze, “you win, release me.”

Nodding, he replies, _“Mn.”_

But neither of them moves. Tsukasa couldn’t find it in himself to untrap Stanley, and thought, _what for?_ , feeling the legs around him still frozen— _perhaps,_ an answer if the eyes aren’t enough to tell.

A day with Stanley’s absence almost drove him to impeccable madness.

 _He misses him,_ he doesn’t say.

After what seems like painful beats of seconds, Stanley’s feet had now landed on the ground, Tsukasa undone his hands from where it sticks on the ring’s fence so he can give him more space to stand. Just like that, bodies part.

“I’m leaving,” says Stanley solemnly, implies that he shall not expect for the waiting figure on the bar counter after every match from here onwards. 

“Will I ever see you again?” 

Grinning, Stanley arches a brow attractively, veiling an emotion as he searches for a cigarette on the back pockets of his jeans only to find them crushed from the fight.

He moves past Tsukasa, goes for the door of the cage retrieving a black leather jacket that he’d peel off himself before they were about to duel. 

Swinging the expensive clothing to his back, he says over his shoulder as he continues to stalk off. Away from Tsukasa’s reach.

“Be where I can always find you.”  
  
  


//  
  
  


Tsukasa Shishio, 26, _Mixed Martial Arts_ superstar, holds a record of 29 - 0. Undefeated all throughout his career, _The King of a Hundred Beasts_ receives a clean punch on the face upon spotting a lustrous white hair among the crowd; because years apart is perennial.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> also, a talented friend of mine made a fanart with some of the scenes in this fic. have a look [here](https://twitter.com/mangosushiwaka/status/1341749666098995200?s=19)
> 
> catch me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nanamiukyo?s=09) if you wanna chat.


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